UCAS and such

Getting into university is stressful at the best of times, this year it is more competitive than it has ever been and probably will be for the next 10 years. With fees going up, everyone who has been considering it for a few years has applied, noone with an iota of common sense is considering taking a gap year and university funding has dropped so less places are available. Great.

We all get the pleasure of applying through the middleman that is UCAS, I can't be bothered to look up what it stands for, if you want to know I recommend Googling it. For a middleman UCAS are great and receive an awful lot of abuse. Some is deserved, some is not. For example, for our personal statements you are allowed 4000 characters and 47 lines. Seems fair, 47 is a slightly strange number but alright. How is it that a statement can be way under the character limit but go over the line limit. There is nothing more frustrating than finally finishing the personal statement, proof reading, and finalising before uploading it to see that stupid bit of red writing that says "2 lines over the 47 line limit." AHHHHHHHHHH, *throw computer through window* bloody UCAS! I sorted that though.

The worst part is the agonising waiting process, first the 3 weeks for my form tutor to write my reference, the quick 2 days for the Head of Sixth Form to process and then the hard part, waiting for offers. I went through the first week telling myself it was too early for a decision but the second week was less pleasant. With every email my pulse raced, could it be an offer? Nope, another email about volunteering/amazon recommends/teamsheet, oh well. What was even more horrible was when I did get an email from UCAS, nervously I opened it to find "Would you like to take part in a survey to rate UCAS?" How disappointing, I can't face a survey right now, I'll just stare at this wall contemplating my university-free failure of a life. We all talked about timings and teachers recalled cases of excellent students having no offers until suddenly getting five in January. After nearly two weeks I had set myself for this horrible future, despite the fact that offers in the first two weeks is very unlikely.

After a hilarious shift at work, much racing and Bond-style fighting with my colleague (friend) I got home to find two emails from UCAS. Both said "Your UCAS status has changed." Cue quick pulse, sharp breaths and excited quivers. Being on my ipod touch I quickly went onto my UCAS app, oh yes, and logged in (knowing my 10-digit code off by heart of course) to find an offer of ABB from Cardiff. Not only this but an offer of ABB from my favourite, and top choice Nottingham. What a day. Conditional is such a beautiful word. If I ever see the word Unconditional on my application I will drop out of school and work full time, think of the money! So I am happy, sorry for the lack of moaning and paintball action. See you next time.

Jumping on the paintball bandwagon

Paintball seems to be an excellent blogging topic, two of my friends have given their comments on the spectacle already (mylifeisdaverage.blogspot.com and strevssundays.blogspot.com) and have probably done a better job than I will do. Until now I have refused to mention names other than my own in this blog but for ease of writing and reading I will just bite the paintball, pardon the pun, and use the names of my friends. We embarked on a trip to Whyteleafe in a jovial mood, we were going to be shooting people in a fun yet painful way, the ultimate lads day out. There was quite a walk from the station, up a massive hill, and after such an early start, this was not the ideal start for such frail teenage bodies on such a crisp and damp Saturday morning. The hill conquered we were well and truly in the mood for war.

I'm going to quickly open the racist door, gathered outside the "warzone" was a group of 15 or so Japanese people, cue paint-related Hiroshima jokes. All these jokes were trumped by the suggestion of Adam Russell: "you know how in war soldiers carry a knife for killing up close? Do you reckon in paintball you could carry a paintbrush?" With all of us kitted up it came to the point of being put into teams. Unable to fairly split ourselves we left it up to the highly fair and intelligent minds of the paintball marshals. Shockingly they didn't split us as evenly as we'd hoped. One one team they put Paul "Psycho with a face mask" Wallace, Ally "the destroyer" Marsh, Tom "In homeland we use real guns" Diver and David "I can't wait to shoot Dave" Streather and on the other team was me, Dave "COD" Williams and Adam "hallo" Russell. It did not look hopeful.

After a safety briefing we went to war, given a quick insight into course strategy we gave our battle-cry, it was quite pathetic really, far too many grammar schoolboys, midlife crisis men and hungover stag-doers for an inspiring rally. Seeing myself as superior in the speed department to my comrades I took it upon myself to sprint off to the vantage point in the form of a massive tree. I made it safely and proceeded to coordinate an attack with total strangers. It did not go well. I do not have the tactical mind needed to orchestrate successful military operations.

Several games later my lack of tactical knowledge combined with the intricate workings of Dave William's battle-ready brain. Having realised he did not have the body to match his mind, and my mind not living up to my body we teamed up. At first it was not successful, a collection of fluke shots took me out in our first two attempts at teamwork, leaving Dave to fend for himself (something he did shockingly well at) but our finest hour came in the final game. Capture the flag, sounds simple enough. But wait, the flag is situated just outside a heavily defended fortress, full of testosterone-fuelled alpha males, this would take an expert military mind and a body of military perfection. Step forward Dave and Joe. In the valuable seconds before hell was unleashed he planned our safest and quickest route to the flag. The plan fresh in my mind I burst from cover on the starting whistle and dived behind his barricade of choice. Under my covering fire, Dave made his run and landed alongside me. This was repeated another two times, leaving us just metres away from the flag, victory was in sight but alas fate is a cruel mistress. As Dave threw himself towards the final barricade in true commando style, as he landed he threw up his arm for a fraction of a second to steady himself and screamed in pain. Thinking he had landed awkwardly I said "Nice one Dave, great work". He stared into my eyes, or at least near them, our masks had fogged up, before revealing his paint splattered hand. He was hit, my comrade, my team-mate but most of all, my friend had fallen in our final battle, I was devastated, I wasn't sure if I could go on. I could hear his voice in my head, urging me on "Go on Joe, forget about me, you have to capture the flag!" In a fit of blind rage I broke from cover and grabbed the flag, with a final rush of adrenaline I sprinted back to base, flag in hand, eyes streaming with the thought of my loss. Back to base I let out a victory cry, a lion would have cowarded in fear at my show of masculinity. That was for you Dave, that was for you.

Dear Liver, fire up the hepatocytes, I'm legal!

You may not have heard from or seen me in the last week, there is a valid explanation. I turned 18 last Monday you see, my time and money has been frittering away in various public houses in the local area and a lot of time wasted recovering.

I have done a lot with my week, Monday saw an assessed A-level Chemistry practical based around activation energy and the Arrhenius equation, quite the birthday present, thanks Chemistry department. I got 12 out of 14 though, not a complete waste of birthday. That out of the way meant pub time so off I went with two close friends for my first legal pint. Got home to pizza and then to the pub with my dad and his friends. I was served by the most miserable pig I've ever seen who looked like she would rather we had walked past the door, foolish considering we made up more than half the custom that night...cow.

The week could quite easily have been described as gig-tastic, Wednesday saw me take a trip to Camden to see the Mystery Jets at the Roundhouse, it was honestly my favourite thing ever, well done to my girlfriend for buying me tickets to it. Sadly she could not attend, had to make a fool of herself on a stage in front of her whole year and their parents instead. I somehow ended up right at the front with a small friend of mine and as an 18-year old male felt particularly responsible for supporting crowd surfers and such.

The next day brought a foals gig, I knew it would never live up to the night before but also knew my girlfriend loves them. In an effort to make the night more enjoyable and to keep my jealous alter-ego down I spent the majority of the afternoon in he pub drinking and drinking, including a drink ironically named "Green-Eyed Monster". A lot of money went that day, didn't eat dinner either so it had the desired affect. I had to meet my best mate in Herne Hill, a place I have never been, on a train I've never been on and in a delirious state, it was destined for disaster. I defied logic and made it alive, he then got me to Brixton. Is it a good idea to dance to street music in Brixton? Obviously not but apparently drunk Joe thinks that would be an excellent plan, so I did. I ran up steps, fell down steps, sang, danced and all while my friend grew more and more ashamed of me. The gig did not start well, about 20 seconds into the first song I got a killer cramp in my hamstring. Best friend was in a fit of hysterics, girlfriend didn't even notice. I'm glad I surround myself with such caring people. In their defence, Foals performed an average catalogue of music fairly well and I quite like it, the fastest song Cassius was awesome, the slow songs were a bit dull but I was having a party in my own head and nothing could stop me.

My journey home was not good, getting separated from my friends, an encounter with a scumbag local at the station and a killer stomach ache all the way home but it could have been worse. I survived my trip to Brixton.

I'm not going to mention my party because I can't remember a lot of it but strevssunday.blogspot.com sums it up fairly well. I remember a mankini, a hat, and my pathetic attempt at giving an impromptu speech. I was given a mug which I opened the next day. It was from my cousin's girlfriend and it is quite possibly the best mug in the entire world, it is covered in useful information. Have you got a mug that tells you that Pi = 3.14159265, the speed of sound is 343m/s, the NATO phonetic alphabet, how to spell unnecessary and about everything under the sun? No you don't.

One quick moan: why are we all ignorant enough to believe that Christmas is here because a massive corporate business has told us so. An advert does not mean Christmas has arrived. This is exactly the way Christmas has moved away from a religious festival to a day about gifts. Bloody Coca Cola.

*hepatocytes - liver cells responsible for breaking down toxins eg. alcohol

X-factor revealed

Dear all, I am sorry for my long absence but nothing got me sufficiently riled up to put my mountains of work to one side to write something. This was until last night, I was at my cousin's birthday, she was 8 or 9ish I think, and whilst eating dinner (a particularly delicious jambalaya) the decision was made that the X factor should be put on. I was not in favour of this, I much preferred the socialising of the family event, talking to other people is enjoyable...sometimes.

To be fair, as the show was starting they mentioned that Bon Jovi would be performing, maybe this won't be so bad after all, so were Jamiroquai and Rihanna but I was too excited about Bon Jovi to care. Show starts, Bon Jovi perform, the whole room sings along, it was beautiful, Bon Jovi are amazing. Then the contestants came out and sang along. Piss off! I don't want the musical legends that are Bon Jovi drowned out by the screeches from these wanabees. Frankly it ruined it for me.

It was about half way through the program that a thought occurred to me: X-factor represents almost everything that is wrong with this country. The only way it could be everything was if it somehow got us to purchase things we can't afford with the promise of not having to pay for 18 months.

Firstly, it reinforces the view in our minds that being famous is more important than anything else. Being raised on celebrities is to blame for the casual-sex and binge-alcohol culture of teenagers, anorexia and bolemia, views on personal appearance and poor values in relationships.

Secondly, it gives the impression that you only get one shot to make your life count. Life is all about progress and adapting, working hard to get further and further in career, love, family and knowledge. You are not a failure if you get voted off a talent show. You are just a loser.

Furthermore, it represents laziness, the music industry is hard work, dog eat dog and requires years of hard work and patience before a big break, the x-factor is just a fast track into the music industry, no performing in small venues, noone letting you down, no bad reviews, no songwriting, the company just do everything for you.

It has taken away our sense of perspective. Simon Cowell has somehow managed to make half the nation think that what happens on his show is the most important thing in the world. "What bomb scares, which dead soldiers abroad, what political scandal? I'm too depressed to care, Belle Amie went out!" It is pathetic that more people voted in the x-factor semi-final in 2007 than in the last general election. People die fighting for the right to vote, and we don't even bother doing so? It seems far more sensible to spend 25p on a vote that won't affect your life at all than to vote for free to decide the future of the country. The television talent show is dying and I will dance on its grave.

On a further note I don't often find myself cheering on poisonous animals but apparently Jedward are in "I'm a Celebrity, Get me out of here!" this year so go Red Back Spider, go Tiger Snake, go go go!!!

10 Reasons I'm a Complete Arse

1. I am very quick to judge complete strangers - I often watch people out and about, on the bus/train, on escalators, all over the place and make up my mind about them instantly. I often find myself looking at a total stranger and thinking to myself "well you are clearly a scumbag, if I was in charge I would have you sterilised."

2. I am overly competitive - whether it be running for a bus, walking down the road or anything, I just have to do it first/best. There is a guy who gets off the bus for school at the same stop as me and I HAVE to get into school before him so I walk at full pace just to get to the door before him. This has been noticed by my friends who have now coined the phrase "Joe always wins."

3. I correct people's grammar, but only some times - If I am in a good mood I will let it slide but if anything bad or minorly annoying has happened I will take it out on people by correcting their grammar (or spelling if over the internet). I do it without thinking, it is not good, especially since I HATE it when people do it to me.

4. I can dish out abuse that I very clearly don't believe in a sincere way that cuts deep - A friend of mine kicked the back of my foot in an attempt to trip me up and I delivered him a little speech on what a twat he is and how I would dance on his grave. He was shocked and apparently it made him think hard that night before finding out I had done it purely in jest. (He also writes a blog that is quite frankly excellent: http://mylifeisdaverage.blogspot.com but I had a blog first so I win.)

5. The opposite - I can deliver hurtful abuse but in a way that makes it seem I am joking. That's right, insult people and get away with it because they are stupid enough to believe that I'm not being serious.

6. Believe something different to me? Ha, well you're clearly wrong! - everyone is entitled to an opinion and I try everything at least once to get a complete picture. Only once have I had my mind radically changed by trying something and that was going to church, atheist to Christian in less than three weeks. Other things have failed to sway me.

7. Extreme dislike of talented children - If I am ever watching any kind of music-related talent show I always hate the younger ones. Anyone younger than about 15 singing just annoys me. I passionately hate George Samson, there are more talented people in my school. The kids with the sob stories about being bullied at school, I can always see exactly why they are bullied and whatever characteristic they give off to the bullies annoys me just as much. Tom Daley too, he gives off a definite element of dickhead.

8. I am a massive hypocrite - I hate people who are over-competitive, stubborn about their (wrong) beliefs, correct my grammar. Previous to today I hated people who took their shirts off at parties, they are the epitome of twattish behaviour. What did I do yesterday? You guessed it, took my shirt off at a party.

9. Every now and then I am in a ridiculously jovial mood and it makes me do ridiculously annoying things - this week I had it, I put paper discs from a hole punch in my mate's bag, hid another mate's bag, filled a mate's locker with ripped up paper and tapped on people's shoulders before moving to the other side. All very irritating things.

10. I know I do all these things and wouldn't have it any other way.

Advertising

When used appropriately advertisement is a wonderful thing. One company gets its name out in the open, another company makes money and I am gently informed of an item or service I may want or need. Fine, everybody wins, but this is not how adverts work now. I can stand adverts for films or television programs, tourism adverts, all the adverts that put their best stuff on show so I may be interested and then make a decision based on how much I need/want the thing, how I will fare without it and if I can afford it. What is not alright are the adverts that carry the message "THE ONLY WAY YOU CAN POSSIBLY SURVIVE A DAY LONGER IS WITH THIS PRODUCT!!!!" The main culprit here is adverts for detergents and disinfectants.

In the least sexist way possible these adverts are aimed at stupid housewives. A recent disinfectant advert claimed that a kitchen chopping board has more bacteria living on it than a toilet seat. Shock horror, women everywhere were just about to take that evening's ingredients for dinner to the bathroom to resume chopping it up on the toilet seat. BUT WAIT, this new disinfectant can kill 99.9% of the bacteria on your chopping board making it safe for you to use it again. PHEW. Hang on, if this little fact is true then why have I not died as a result of a horrific disease caught from the bacteria on the chopping board?

As a fairly amateur biologist I can explain everything that is wrong with this advert. Firstly if there are more bacteria on the chopping board than the toilet seat then this has been the case for many many years and is clearly the way it is meant to be, there is more bacteria on the human skin than there is on the toilet seat and the chopping board put together, quickly, disinfect you skin now to the extent it burns off horribly, but at least those bacteria are dead! Secondly, not all bacteria are bad, quite the opposite, a tiny fraction (less than 1%) of bacteria are harmful in anyway at all, obviously certain places contain a higher proportion of the bad bacteria. The toilet seat obviously has a higher proportion of bad bacteria than a chopping board or the human skin, chopping board bacteria are completely harmless. Thirdly, the only thing preventing the bad bacteria from taking 100% of the chopping board is all the space already taken up by the good bacteria. So here's an idea, spray it with a disinfectant that kills 99.9% of all bacteria. Guess what, that 0.1% is almost certainly the hardiest, roughest, toughest bad bacteria going, and now it has the whole chopping board to itself "brilliant," it must think, "that daft old tart just killed off all the competition, this chopping board belongs to me!"

My next quibble is with automatic soap dispensers. I have no problem with soap, I would be pretty unpopular if I did. This soap may be in the form of a bar or in a squirt bottle, again, no problems so far. Advertisement, here is where the problem begins. A company has developed a new bottle that dispenses liquid soap automatically when its motion detector detects that something has been put beneath it. How did they market this? "Did you know that your soap pump harbours bacteria and may have more bacteria on it than a toilet bowl? This transfers on to your hands when you press the soap pump." Right, let me break this down again. Firstly, so what? Am I not about to wash my hand with the soap that you claim kills this bacteria on my hands? Getting a little bit of extra bacteria on my hands BEFORE I wash them is going to make no difference at all. Secondly, what about the tap? Surely this has the same amount of bacteria too, and I have to touch that to turn it off and that will be after I wash my hands. Oh damn, a conundrum, I could compulsively scrub my hands repeatedly, buy a motion-sensitive tap or GET ON WITH MY LIFE BECAUSE IT DOES NOT MATTER?! It just preys upon the germophopic and the uneducated.

My final grievance is with an advert for an oven cleaner. The product's slogan was "So easy a man could do it" I'm up for a bit of casual sexism but we live in a politically correct world and how would this be treated if it was in the reverse? Can you imagine the controversy of an advert with the slogan "This car is so easy to drive a woman could do it" or "This computer is so easy to use a woman could do it"? There would be absolute uproar so why is the oven cleaner one acceptable? This got me so worked up that I..I..I..considered writing a strongly worded letter. I didn't though.

Gah, adverts!

No Extra Time

This could be a post about how I have no spare time to get anything done, I am running far too close to a deadline or I feel my time is running out. It is none of these, it is another anti-Seppitic rant at my least favourite FIFA President. The power hungry moron that is Sepp Blatter has come up with yet another game destroying idea, to get rid of extra time and go straight to penalties in the event of a draw in a cup tie. His reasoning behind this is to make cup games more interesting since it will stop teams from "parking the bus in front of the goal" or playing very defensively for those less up to speed with football terminology. On par with his usual ideas this one is just silly. (I am toning down the language after an incident involving one of my posts being published in the school sports newspaper without being edited. The Headmaster reads it, need I say more?)

Anyway, how is making a match shorter going to prevent teams playing defensively? If anything it will encourage teams to play more defensively since they have to defend for considerably less time than before. Not only this but I have never liked penalties as a way of deciding a match, the World Cup final of 2006 was a perfect example of this, the most important game in the world should not be decided by what is ultimately luck. If penalties were more skill than luck then Everton and Liverpool would undoubtedly still be in the Carling Cup. If anything Sepp, come up with a better solution than penalties, if you did I would forgive you for all of your footballing sins.

While I'm on the topic of Blatter I will pick out another of his outrageous comments. He has suggested that in Women's football they should be forced to wear tighter tops to make it more interesting to watch. Sepp you dirty old pervert, this is the 21st Century, you can't just dress women how you want and watch them run around. It's like saying newsreaders should be naked to make the news more interesting (Trevor McDonald naked, I cringe just thinking about it), or teachers to make lessons more interesting, or magazines to make the articles more...oh.

You may ask why noone stands against him in the Presidential election, he bribes the board that are in charge of voting in a subtle, clever and underhand way.

Someone stop this lunatic, dead or alive.